Hot Desk

Roy Møller 

Hot desk, commandeered,
I’ll man you like a cannon
on a flight deck, folding,
or a guard to take over
as hours itch like busbies overheating.

Hot desk – I make my slow beginning,
dispersing fast food discarded by another
facing down the jaws of a deadline.

Shared PC – you’re sluggish this lunchtime
so I yawn and process background radiation
and hubbub, hubbub, hubbub.

Shared PC – you’re a job’s worth to me
who won’t be jumpstarted
so while you whir I start flicking
through a stray notebook
abandoned like a diary,
white-glove precious, or so I pretend –
the last piece of handwritten
parchment on Earth.

Feel me numb, bored, crunching;
ease me into tedium and torpor,
ease me in as a temporary player
attempting to place faith beyond the binary
on convalescent kit with trust issues.
Hot desk, I know I should chill.

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